


Your Lipstick Stains on the Front Lobe of my Left Side Brains

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a loving partner, Blasphemy, Blasphemy kink, Chronic Pain Crowley, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley being bratty, Disabled Crowley, F/M, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Other, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rated E for Lipstick, Sacreligeous prayer, Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), amongst the actual porn, intimacy porn, lightly mentioned, lipstick kink, lipstick stains, title as song lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21610894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are on their way to the Portland. They might not make it, to be perfectly honest.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 129
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Chaotic Omens: The Fallout of a Big Bang, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Your Lipstick Stains on the Front Lobe of my Left Side Brains

They’re going to go out to the Portland. It’s their upscale dining place of choice when Crowley is presenting femininely because it’s simply much easier to never be asked questions about gender and form [1] than it was to answer them or to deal with excessive stares. Or, Heaven forbid, strangers making assumptions about things like infidelity and the like. [2]

Crowley had only just finished her ablutions, having soaked in a scalding bath with enough scented oils and nubile angels[3] to make all of Rome jealous, should they have seen it. Aziraphale had, earlier in the week, conspired to take care of Crowley. She had been having difficulty recently with her corporeal form due to its serpentine nature. Crowley generally tried to out stubborn God Herself to be anything but a snake (which was something of a feat but nothing truly surprising if one had met Crowley) and after so much stress and concentration spent elsewhere on the averted end-of-days a few years ago[4].

* * *

[1] Especially because it was so difficult to tell where Humans were in their thoughts on such things in general at any given period in time.

[2] It had happened once or twice, even though Crowley and Aziraphale had never done anything so uniquely Human as dating, and had skipped straight to settling rather happily into each other’s arms and called each other by such sweet names as husband and wife and spouse.

[3] One, actually.

[4] If one wanted to put it into a human context, every year so far (if it is assumed Crowley and Aziraphale have the mentality similar to their corporations, ie around 50-55 years old) is comparable to a Human’s half a week.

* * *

This means, not seeing each other for a century (which would feel to be just a little less than a "year" in Human standards) would certainly be alarming but could be understandable after a particularly bad fight. 

It also means that, to them (especially considering their stress levels after the notpocalypse) it hasn’t been all that long and they could each certainly use some pampering and healing still. And therefore, Aziraphale had plenty of reason to bother Crowley into baths and massage her hips and shoulders, just like he thought she deserved, whenever the mood hit him.

And so, Crowley was cajoled into being pampered and indulging in her favorite of the Big Seven; Sloth. Which allowed her to sit and relax into Aziraphale’s firm hands, letting him massage her muscles into goo while she hummed in utter, hedonistic contentment. Such shameless displays of ecstasy and pleasure were more likely to come from Aziraphale, but he was particularly hoping she'd enjoy his attentions - and so she did. Just like Roman baths of old, it was hot and steamy and Aziraphale was mostly naked as he attended to her. It was lovely and just this Earthly side of divine and, just this once, she said nothing about the waves of devoted love Aziraphale pushed out at her, deciding to bask in the warm sunshine of it. 

He oiled her up and brought out an old strigil he'd kept in perfect shape, making Crowley snort; of course he’d kept one! And then he scraped all the dead skin off, so well she thought she might be able to hold off on shedding for quite a while longer too. Wasn’t that a pleasant thought? Perhaps she’d ask him to do it more often. 

Come to think of it, hadn’t she shed less around that time? Perhaps because of the bathing culture and all the oils. She missed that in particular, to be sure. 

Crowley sighed against Aziraphale’s hand as it cupped her face and pulled her into a long, slow kiss that felt far more sensual than sexual. 

It was nice, the complete and utter lack of pressure for more, the enjoyment of touching just to be touched, the decadent feel of oiled palms over silk-smooth skin. 

Aziraphale’s barely-calloused hands were strong and firm and confident wherever they touched her. Aziraphale pulled Crowley, limp with relaxation, up to sit on the edge of the clawed tub and lean against his chest, her head lolling against his shoulder, and his arms firm underneath hers. 

He lathered her up with pine and wood-smoke scented soap and produced a straight razor from thin air and set about checking the blade for any imperfections. It just wouldn't do to miss any spots, or worse, cause her any discomfort with an inadequate edge. She could have miracled herself free of any hair, if she liked, but that wasn't the point. The point of it was to feel the surety and skill of his hands on her, using sharp tools she trusted him with implicitly, and to feel him cleanse her in all the little, physical ways humans sometimes did. In much the same way she secretly felt like his love cleansed her soul. 

Every slow stroke of the blade from ankle to knee sent a shiver up Crowley’s back, a dull sensation of electricity curling at the base of her spine like a large cat purring, rattling her bones. 

All at once it made her want to crawl out of her skin, hips first, and sink deeper into the gentle safety of Aziraphale’s body. Her mouth fell open in lazy pants and Aziraphale had to press his hand to the inside of her thigh, trapping her leg against his own in order to keep her from moving. He wouldn't allow his concentration to be broken. 

It felt like hours were passing while the sharp, cool edge of the razor stroked over her skin, followed by the touch of warm, loving hands. 

Aziraphale took his sweet time between the apex of Crowley’s thighs, exploring with his hands while holding her firm in his grasp of her so she wouldn’t hurt herself on his blade. All the while, Aziraphale murmured the sweetest nothings in a smattering of languages in between bursts of silent concentration that made Crowley’s head spin just as well. 

Some of the languages Crowley knew, and some she didn’t. And though she’d never mention it, Akkadian was her favorite. The poetry of that language on Aziraphale’s tongue - something she hadn’t heard in so long - made her dizzy and filled her with a heady, foggy haze of _something_ she couldn’t quite put her finger on. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmured, setting aside the razor and pressing soft kisses into the skin of Crowley’s neck. The curved column of it made his mouth water, and he smoothed his palms over her sides gently, feeling very much like she was a feast set out for him alone. Stretched out before him, he partook. Ate her up with his eyes and devoured her with his hands. Tasted the love on her skin with his lips and tongue. And he was satisfied; for Crowley, when he looked upon her, could only ever be proclaimed Good. 

“Mhmm?” Crowley hummed drowsily in reply. 

“Come now, love, time to get dressed.” Aziraphale didn’t wait for her to respond, instead scooping her up out of the bath and setting her down just long enough to wrap a heated, fluffy towel around her before picking her back up again. He carried Crowley out into the bedroom and laid her out on the opulent, Mayfair bed, pausing for a moment to pull away the towel and bare her naked flesh. To his eyes only, his hands only. 

Aziraphale’s fingers twitched but he reined himself in with the well-practiced willpower of one who’d had millennia to teach himself to refrain from touching, from wanting. Crowley, for her part, whined lazily when Aziraphale didn’t keep himself glued to her side, upset at the loss of his warmth and the gentle, loving touch of his skin on hers. Over the course of her bath, and becoming so utterly blissed out on intimate affection, Crowley had entirely forgotten that they’d been planning on going out in the first place.

“Just a little more, my dear.” Aziraphale crooned as he returned to her side, holding a black dress made of dupioni silk and caped with gauzy georgette fabric to add a seductive swirl of fabric to trail behind in the wake of her hip-forward slink. Aziraphale had picked it out himself for her, surprising Crowley with its modernity - though more vintage styles reminiscent of Victorian and Edwardian clothing had been coming back into vogue so perhaps she shouldn't have been so astonished after all. It even had a hint of shine to it, subtle scales patterned in thin, crackling laminate across the bodice of it, to stretch tight over her breasts and torso, emphasizing her lithe figure. Aziraphale had, of course, outdone himself. He did so enjoy getting to dress Crowley up, almost as much as Crowley enjoyed trying to goad Aziraphale into letting her pick his outfits.[5]

Crowley complied with Aziraphale’s unspoken demands with a dramatic huff, nearly flinging herself off the bed and wrapping her arms around his neck. Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly at her antics and set about dressing her as well. Even though he hadn’t intended to be her valet, he wasn’t going to complain. 

Lacing up the back, slowly covering her skin up inch by inch while knowing there was absolutely nothing worn underneath the dress certainly made it all the more tantalizing. There was something about the pretense of _unknown_ that thrilled Aziraphale. It lit a fire in his veins to touch hidden skin and lay ardent kisses across forbidden flesh. His skin prickled underneath his own clothing, half-dressed as he was (to keep the water from ruining his vest or coat), at the thought of tearing the dress off of Crowley just as soon as he’d done up the last hook.

Crowley kissed his jaw, so light and teasing that it raised hairs on the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. He scoffed at her and pulled her into a proper kiss, gentle and loving and consuming. He nearly lost his concentration when she whimpered against his lips, but Aziraphale pulled himself together with the thought of making it to dinner on time.

“Not now, dear.” Aziraphale admonished, laying a finger on her lips with an unimpressed look. Crowley didn’t even bother having the grace to look sheepish, instead she looked entirely pleased with herself (and the obvious interest in Aziraphale’s dilated pupils). Whether or not he would ever acknowledge it. 

That was the game they played.. after all. Crowley tempted (never Tempted) and Aziraphale would let himself fall into it. Or not. And if not, she’d either try harder now or back off and try again later - whichever she thought would work to get her what she wanted in the long run. Luckily for them both, she had only ever wanted Aziraphale. [6]

* * *

[5] Crowley never did get Aziraphale to give up control over his wardrobe, though he did occasionally wear a more modern tie - if only because Crowley couldn’t seem to keep her hands off of it to pull him down for kissing (and more) whenever he did. 

[6] Aziraphale was much the same. Humans were interesting and inventive, but there was something to be said about not needing to go through the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known at anything faster than a snail’s pace. Humans did, after all, burn out so quickly. They lasted century if they were lucky, and they rarely were. Aziraphale much preferred the comforting, steady company of someone as long-lived as himself, and only Crowley ever caught his eye amongst those who were considered immortal.

* * *

Aziraphale gestured for Crowley to sit at her vanity, which she did, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest in a huff. He chuckled at her pout and carded his fingers through her miraculously dried and curled hair. Some time ago, he’d learned how to put long hair up into intricate styles, though his blunt fingers had never been particularly deft at it. But it was enough to pile Crowley’s locks into a swooping chignon with tasteful curls falling from the base of it. 

He looked over at the overly intricate clock on the opposite wall and blinked at the time. Was it so late already? Oh well, it couldn’t be helped. He tutted at Crowley’s lack of makeup, and her laziness for not having started on it already, as he stepped around the ottoman stool she sat on and picked up the eyeliner. No one would see it but him, and yet that was certainly half the allure of liner on her. He wasn’t inclined to cover her freckles with heavy foundation and concealer, preferring to see each and every angel kiss laid bare on her cheeks. So simple eye makeup and lipstick were all he ever painted on.

Crowley’s lips were perfect. 

They were crooked, with a sharply peaked bow, and perpetually pulled askew in what could be called either a sneer or a smirk. Aziraphale painted them delicately, in a shade of red called ‘Bitten Apple’ – the most alluring shade of bright red Aziraphale had ever seen, even more than the actual Apple from Eden. He loved this one especially, even over the dark purple 'Snake Bite,' the just-bitten pink gloss of 'Oral Fixation,' and the wine-dark red of 'Harlot.’ 

Aziraphale took immense pleasure in holding Crowley’s face still; firm fingers cradling her jaw as he carefully lined her lips with the edge of a lip brush. He held his breath and forced himself to pay no mind to the warm air that caressed his fingertips, turning his knuckles white on the small brush, and threatened the perfection of his lines.

After her lips were outlined he turned the brush flat and filled in the rest, determinedly not meeting Crowley’s eyes. He already knew the way she was looking at him, he could feel the weight of her gaze pressing on his skin. The searing heat of it drew a flush across the back of his neck and made his collar feel tight.

“Just about– there!” Aziraphale murmured happily, more to himself than to Crowley, as he pulled the brush away and set it down on the vanity. “Lovely,” he breathed, finally looking Crowley in the eyes and brushing the pad of his thumb along her jawline. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her amorous expression as she watched him with what could only be called 'bedroom eyes'. 

Her gaze was heated and impassioned, just as he feared it would be. His legs suddenly felt quite weak, caught in her intense focus. Her molten-gold eyes were accentuated by the blacks and greys he’d smudged across her eyelids and lined with sharp wings that only he would ever see since she’d put on her sunglasses as soon as they left the flat. 

This was all rather excessive he knew, but Aziraphale had always enjoyed the finer things, ever since there had been finer things to enjoy. He’d always liked the excessive, and the decadent, and all the things that Humans had made to enrich their lives. This simply happened to be one of them, and it happened to be something he could do in return for Crowley, who was so often gifting him acts of service that it nearly made his head spin. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed after a long moment passed, unable to pull his eyes away from hers, as if hypnotized by the snake in her. “Oh,” he repeated, quieter this time, deeper in his chest, as the familiar heat of desire rushed through his veins, the floodgates open now that he no longer had a task to keep him occupied. Her makeup was perfect, they were minutes from needing to leave, and he wanted nothing more at that very moment than to undo all their carefully laid plans.

“Oh?” Crowley purred in askance and raked her hellfire hot eyes raked up and down Aziraphale’s form before licking her lips. The lipstick hadn’t dried enough not to smudge just yet and the tips of her forked tongue pulled back bright red, leaving thin streaks across her lip. Aziraphale breathed in and time stopped, or at least felt like it did. He couldn’t remember how to keep his heart beating and his brain working. Instead, he felt as if the only thing his corporation was currently capable of was drowning in the overwhelming desire to ravish her that twisted through him in intricate loops and serpentine twining. All he wanted was to pull the pins from her pristine hair and watch it fall down her back like the flowing of a silken river, to kiss her lips free of any makeup at all, and to make her sweat with the desire he inspired in her so that her eye makeup ran down her face. 

“Oh,” he affirmed, voice steadier this time. He swallowed and stepped forward, standing so close Crowley had to part her knees for him to stand between. He towered over her, seated low before the vanity as she was. Aziraphale touched her at the junction of her neck and shoulder, light as a whisper, and slipped his pinky underneath the loose strap of her dress as he swirled the pad of his index finger down to trace over the length of her collarbone. 

Crowley tilted her head up at Aziraphale and moaned, a low and breathy thing, leaning into his touch until he could feel her breath, hot and humid, through the thin layers of his shirts. He couldn’t tell if he regretted not putting on his waistcoat yet, which might have protected him from his dear jezebel’s wiles, but he was caring less and less about making it to their reservations with every passing second.

Crowley’s eyes drifted from his and her hands moved from her lap, both of them alighting gently on his hips, her index fingers hooking into the belt loops of his trousers. She flashed a mischievous smile, her wickedness gleefully revealed, and she pressed a tender, lingering kiss just above the hem of Aziraphale’s trousers, leaving a bright red lipstick stain on the white of his pressed shirt. 

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped at the sheer audacity of it, but he was caught off guard for only a moment, until her smile turned into a smirk. The hand so delicate on Crowley’s shoulder swiftly relocated to twist in her hair, disturbing the pristine style held up with pins (assisted by both a prayer and a miracle). The half of it that wasn’t curled and crushed in Aziraphale’s grip fell free over his hand and down Crowley’s back. It was just as satisfying as he knew it would be. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished roughly, voice thick with his fervor and hidden glee that even now she was giving him any excuse to take what he wanted. Crowley had always been happy to give Aziraphale anything he wanted. But far better were the times Crowley got to set whatever it was the angel wanted right in front of him, and then give him all the rationalizations and justifications he needed to seize it in both hands. Herself included. 

“Angel.” Crowley grinned, arching her back a little, just enough to press her chest against the apex of his thighs. This allows her enough give in his grip to crane her neck to the side and show off a poorly hidden bite mark, still healing after Aziraphale had put it there days ago. Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath and tightened his hold on her hair. 

“You _ruined_ my shirt, my dear.” All of a sudden his voice was still and firm and domineering. Crowley sucked in a sharp breath of her own and let it out again as a shudder, going pliant in Aziraphale's hold, melting against him. She let herself be held up by nothing more than Aziraphale's hand in her hair, and her own weak grip on his belt loops.

“Did I?” Crowley murmured, wanting nothing more than to bury her face in the bulk of Aziraphale and breath him in deep. Her serpentine tongue flicked out to test the air, and the musky scent of the arousal pooling between them filled her mouth and nose, sending a shiver up her spine.

“Don’t try to play innocent, you hellion!”[7] Aziraphale’s pupils were blown wide with desire, matching Crowley’s in all but color, and he leaned down to kiss Crowley roughly on the lips. He had to pull her head back for the angle to work, which had the added benefit of unbalancing her. Crowley gripped his hips, digging sharp nails into the thick fabric to steady herself, trusting implicitly that he wouldn’t let either of them fall. She moaned into the kiss as Aziraphale devoured her, without a care for smudging her lipstick.

* * *

[7] Crowley rarely tried to play innocent, that was usually Aziraphale’s schtick, but projection being what it is, she often got accused of it all the same. It was alright with her, though; Aziraphale had some of her favorite reactions when he thought she was being particularly obnoxiously ‘innocent.’

* * *

The slick, obscene sound of their wet lips parting hung between them. The seconds when their eyes fluttered open and made contact felt like a loving, comfortable eternity, warmed by amorous fire. A soft keening sound slipped from Crowley’s lips and Aziraphale pulled her up once more, guiding her to sit with a hand pressed firmly against the back of her skull. Crowley’s lips parted and her tongue flicked out, black, thin and snake-like, stark against the mess of riotous red smeared over her lips.

Aziraphale groaned in the back of his throat at the picturesque view. With his free hand he worked the buttons of his trousers free, much to the delight of Crowley. She hissed a pleased _yesss_ under her breath and tickled the back of his hand with the tips of her forked tongue. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale spoke, enunciating clearly, every word punctuated with a tilt of Crowley’s head, directed by his hand, “I think you ought to make it up to me. Penance for your sins, dearest one.” Crowley’s gasp turned into a low moan and her eyelids fluttered in obvious arousal. 

“How many Hail Marys should I recite, O Angel?” 

“None.” Aziraphale pushed aside the thick fabric of his trousers and pulled his cock out, “You shan’t get off so lightly, darling. After all, a few recitations of a prayer is hardly enough, not for ruining my things. We’ve got to make you sincerely repent, to expiate, my dear girl. I think you ought to be assigned an _interior_ mortification instead. To learn your lesson, of course.” Crowley’s breath caught in her throat as her mouth watered at the casual blasphemous innuendo, as much as the thick cock before her. 

“Oh yess,” Crowley hissed, transforming her tongue to something slightly more human. Thick and wide, but still long and dexterous for wrapping around Aziraphale the way she knew would drive him mad and make him forget to be gentle with her. Assuming, of course, it was his intention to be gentle with her at all. 

“Yes? Speak clearly, Crowley.” Aziraphale shook her by the head lightly, just to remind her how much of her body he controlled, how pliant she was in his grasp. 

It was best not to let her forget just how much of her fell under his immediate jurisdiction. “It won’t be a proper mortification if you don’t want forgiveness yourself. It won’t be as _good_ of you if I have to make you repentant,” the angel trailed off, his eyes following the lines of her throat as she swallowed, trying to wrest herself back under control.

“Yes, Angel, I'll be good for you, I’ll repent!” Crowley cried out, tightening her hands at his hips, while her own rolled uselessly over the cushioned ottoman beneath her. “For you Angel, always for you,” she whimpered at the lack of friction where she needed it most, unable to rub her thighs together with her knees parted around Aziraphale’s legs.

“Prove it,” Aziraphale challenged, a smug smile thick in his voice. Crowley breathed in a shuddering breath and closed her eyes, upturning her face as if in prayer. And then pressed her face against Aziraphale’s pelvis, her lips ghosting along the length of his cock, leaving streaks of apple-skin red in her wake. 

“Confiteor mi Angele omnipotente, beato Aziraphale principato, tibi.” [8] Each word she spoke, every movement of her lips, brushed against Aziraphale’s prick. He could feel every quivering gasp of breath and every hot exhale against his length. Every jump of his cock drew a hitched gasp from him. The sensation of being prayed to spread from the heat of her mouth in the cradle of his hips, and out through the rest of him, filling him with divine warmth. It made his clothing feel tight and his corporation feel snug in ways that drove him near to madness. 

“Quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo, et opere,” Crowley continued, grinning to herself at Aziraphale’s obvious difficulty. She revelled in the way his fingers tightened into a fist and relaxed in turn as they tangled in her hair, which had been grown long for this very purpose. That and Aziraphale’s inability to keep his hands out of it now that it was long and he'd given himself permission to touch her. Temptation wasn’t only about what was said, of course.

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” Each repetition was emphasized with a kiss, a firm press of lips against hard flesh, leaving near-perfect imprints of her lips in red, “Ideo precor beatam Aziraphale Principate, orare pro me ad Dominum Deus mi.” Aziraphale’s breath came in ragged pants and before Crowley could finish the “Amen” he had pulled her hair, tilting her head back so that he could kiss her hungrily.

* * *

[8] Translation of the butchered Confiteor prayer:  
Confiteor mi Angele omnipotente, // I confess to my Almighty Angel,  
Beato Aziraphale principato, tibi, // to blessed Principality Aziraphale, to you,  
Quia peccavi nimis // that I have sinned exceedingly,  
Cogitatione, verbo, et opere, // in thought, word, and deed,  
Mea culpa, mea culpa, // through my fault, through my fault,  
Mea maxima culpa. // through my most grievous fault.  
Ideo precor // Therefore I beseech  
beatam Aziraphale Principate, // blessed Principality Aziraphale,  
orare pro me ad Dominum Deus mi. // to absolve me, my God.

* * *

Their lips met with an electric spark that might have passed for static shock if the profanity of Crowley's impiety wasn't still hot in her mouth. Her tongue burned with a sacrilegious touch as she plundered his mouth as thoroughly as he ravished hers, smearing her lipstick even further. 

Aziraphale pulled back but didn’t let up the vice-grip in her hair, flexing her back like a seasoned bow. Her breasts pushed up against his thighs, and her neck was bared to him. Aziraphale sucked a line down the column of her throat, leaving bright red smears atop the purple blooms of fresh bruises, hurried along and darkened by a touch of divinity. 

Crowley moaned loudly, turning into a high-pitched keen when Aziraphale bent down further, pulling her back to accommodate him. He held her weight with the arm bent behind her shoulders, supporting her. He covered her chest with biting kisses, leaving marks on her skin even through the fabric of her dress, but none at all on the fabric itself. 

She writhed against the arm holding her up and Aziraphale had to widen his stance to keep them both upright. This, of course, pushed Crowley’s legs further apart and she whined at the overwhelming sensation of being both empty and _wanting_.

“Angel!” She pleaded, and he knew she would be down on her knees already if he weren’t in the way, “Please!”

“Please _what_ , my dear?” Aziraphale’s lips burned like fire on her chest. Crowley panted, half out of her mind with arousal and temptation, if only he would just let her give in to it.

“My mouth,” She moaned, “Let me get my mouth on you.” 

A low, rumbling growl, like a lion's, rolled through Aziraphale’s chest, and Crowley trembled at the sound. The thought of him becoming so overwhelmed that his other Cherubic heads were pushing up against the surface of his corporation and influencing him was almost too much to bear.

“Please!” She whined one more time, doing her best to tempt Aziraphale into giving her what she wanted, without actually Tempting him - though that was certainly an idea.

Aziraphale stood up to his full height and loosened his grip on Crowley’s hair just enough to let her take the lead. True to form, when given an inch she took a mile. 

Crowley pulled him forward by the hips even as she lunged forward to swallow him down, her tongue wrapping cleverly around the base of his cock. She unhinged her jaw to take him quickly to the hilt, until Aziraphale hit the back of her throat and her nose was up against the lipstick stain she'd left on his neatly pressed, nearly pristine, white shirt. 

Aziraphale moaned, a low roar of a thing that she felt vibrate under her hands and against her lips where they pressed into him. Knowing how little control Aziraphale had over himself, and how much he was exerting over her instead pulled a long, needy moan from deep in her belly. 

His hand tightened in Crowley’s hair again, drawing her slowly off his spit-slick prick until her mouth was only around the tip of him. He luxuriated in the slow draw of her tongue and lips up his cock, streaking his length with lipstick and disrupting the perfect kiss marks she’d left on him. 

Aziraphale’s eyes were intense and darkening to a thundercloud grey with his arousal as he watched Crowley, transfixed. She smiled around the flared head of his cock and moaned again, a bit performative, but it pleased her to feel his heated gaze on her. She swirled her tongue around the head in a decidedly inhuman way, dragging the forked tip of her tongue across the slit as slowly as she could manage before lapping up the precum beading there. 

Aziraphale’s hand tightened again, this time to the point of real pain. She was sure some must have ripped, but even more than that, she was sure she didn’t care as long as he kept up that enjoyable rumbling. 

It startled a real moan out of her when Aziraphale used that grip on her hair to pull her back down onto his cock until she was back where she’d started; her mouth and throat stretched beyond human limits to take all of him, and very grateful she had no gag reflex to speak of (rather handy, that). 

But Aziraphale didn’t stop there, much to Crowley’s utter delight. He rocked her back and forth over his length, until he forgot himself even more and started fucking slowly into her mouth and throat. 

Crowley, relishing her part, closed her eyes and focused on nothing more than swallowing around Aziraphale only when his pelvis was firm against her face. And doing particularly wicked and inventive things with her tongue as he slid in and out of her mouth, so no thrust was quite the same as the one before. She wanted to inundate Aziraphale with _too much_ as best she could.

Suddenly, like a flood breaking through a levee, Aziraphale’s hips stuttered and began fucking Crowley’s mouth in earnest. Driven far past his ability to be gentle, he used her to chase his own pleasure, just as she liked. Drool dripped from Crowley’s lips and down her chin as she relaxed her throat entirely, hollowing her cheeks. She hung on for the ride, and clung to that floating, content feeling that warmed her whenever Aziraphale decided to take care of her by gathering up all the authority and control. [9] 

Some immeasurable amount of time later, [10] Aziraphale cried out, loud and shrill like an eagle’s scream, and _runneth over_ down her throat. Crowley blinked slowly and swallowed, pleased beyond measure when Aziraphale shivered with the beginnings of overstimulation as he carefully extracted himself from her mouth.

* * *

[9] They would later learn about the modern language used to describe these sorts of feelings; words like submissive, and Dominant, and subspace (and the similar but opposite Domspace). As well as the arts of Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, and Masochism; and how to use them for the purposes of pleasure, intimacy, and release in physical, emotional, and mental variations. 

[10] Crowley couldn’t be counted on to keep track of how long considering her bliss-like state at being a vessel of pleasure. She was notoriously bad at keeping track of time already, so bliss didn’t help her much in this regard.

* * *

She grinned wickedly up at Aziraphale and leaned forward to nuzzle into the soft skin of his belly, ghosting her breath over his spent cock. She hoped to inspire him into a second wind and entice him to fuck her properly, or to at least keep him trembling as she pushed him further and further into oversensitivty, which was nearly as good.

“You foul fiend,” Aziraphale murmured fondly, cupping his hands around the base of Crowley’s skull and tilting her head up to capture her lips into a gentle kiss. He moaned, low in the back of his throat as he licked his way into her mouth and tasted himself there. 

“Angel,” Crowley broke the kiss with a whine, pouting up at Aziraphale and widening her eyes in feigned innocence. Looking for all the world like she’d never been loved a day in her life. 

“Oh my dear, I’ve neglected you, haven’t I?” Aziraphale murmured, only just stopping himself from rolling his eyes at her, his fond smile still firmly in place. 

“Yes, very much. I’ve never been so neglected.” Crowley pitched her voice higher and airier than usual, imitating a particular diva from their visits to the opera decades ago. The impromptu parody drew a startled, delighted laugh from Aziraphale. 

Joy danced brightly in their eyes as they looked at one another. Both pleased beyond reckoning to possess the simple, lower-case love they had in these small moments, just as much as they reveled in their upper-case Love with its grand gestures and daring rescues. 

“Then let me offer you my apologies, and promise you my future passion, my dear, so we may clean up and go to dinner?” Crowley pouted for real this time, no longer interested in going to the Portland at all. She’d just have to change Aziraphale’s mind, then. Not the easiest thing, but she’d certainly done harder. 

Crowley wrapped her arms around Aziraphale’s neck so he couldn’t pull away as she kissed and nipped up the column of his neck to moan breathily into his ear, “Have me for dinner instead.” 

Aziraphale went still, every atom of his being focused like a laser on Crowley and where she touched him. He catalogued every trembling breath she took, how her lips brushed the shell of his ear. Noting all the pleasant ways his body tingled at her proximity, and sighing out a whine at the thought of devouring the demon beneath him. 

Overcome with the image of her spread out before him, he recalled how her body had felt resting against his above the edge of the tub, and how much he had wanted her at that moment (and always). He wrapped his hands around her thighs and picked her up in a single fell swoop, standing firm and strong even with her added weight. Crowley squeaked in surprise, but immediately melted against him, wrapping her legs around his waist as Aziraphale walked them to the bed. 

As he laid her back on the bed, her hair fanned out beneath her head and she let her arms rest, bent at the elbows, by her face. She watched him with sunstroke yellow eyes, bright and searing. 

With a shaky breath Aziraphale untangled Crowley’s legs from his waist and knelt at her feet, his hands beginning at her ankles and tracing up her smooth skin, slowly revealing the banquet before him. 

The anticipation was what Aziraphale loved most. That moment when a dish was laid before him on a table, when everything was in view and plated to perfection. The still moment just before the sun broke the horizon in the mornings and painted the sky in gauzy, grey hues - when all the world was quiet. When ice clinked in a glass of room-temperature whiskey, or marshmallows were dropped into steaming cocoa. That first inhale, with eyes closed, to savor the scent of whatever delicacy was laid before him; a sumptuous meal, dew pearling on long-bladed grasses and sweet-smelling blooms, a glass of peaty whiskey, or the taste of rich chocolate.

With Crowley’s dress rucked up to her hips and her creamy, freckled thighs on full display, Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed in, moaning on the exhale. Never, in all his existence, would he find anything that smelled more heavenly than Crowley. And, with that thought seeping into his every crevice, Aziraphale surged forward. His tongue was wide and flat as he licked up Crowley’s labia. The tip of his tongue firm as he flicked it over her clit before sealing his lips over the bundle of nerves to suck a loud, desperate cry from Crowley’s throat. Her hands fisted into the sheets by her head, and she turned her face into a pillow, screwing her eyes shut. Her thighs trembling as Aziraphale’s firm grip kept them parted wide. 

Aziraphale hummed to himself and groaned at the ambrosia on his tongue. In any other context, it would be lewd even all by itself. In this context it was nothing short of obscene, and only made Crowley that much wetter. Aziraphale moved one of her legs to lay across his back, her knee resting on his shoulder. He slipped his arm underneath her hips, curving around to spread her soft folds between fingers so he could dive deeper into the core of her. 

A thumb lazily circling her clit kept her from being able to settle down. Her low whine went on for longer than humanly possible and her trembling slowly spread, from where it had started in her thighs, to encompass her entire body.

Aziraphale’s other hand gripped the inside of her other thigh tightly, keeping it pinned to the bed and spread wide so that he could feast unencumbered. Occasionally, he enjoyed the sensory deprivation of having her thighs clamped around his head and blocking out everything but the pounding of blood in his ears and the slickness of her beneath his mouth. But not tonight. 

If they weren’t going to be leaving for dinner tonight then he would satisfy his hunger with the offering of her body. His tongue was blunt as he pressed into her at his leisure, his thumb still firm and unrelenting rolling circles over her clit. None of it enough to bring her to her peak any time soon, but he wanted to climb that mountain together at a languid pace. 

Aziraphale smiled to himself as her juices dripped down his chin, her slick leaking from her more and more. The longer he drew out her impending orgasm, with just his tongue and lips and thumb, the higher-pitched Crowley’s moans and pleas became. And the less imaginative her petitions and prayers to higher powers she couldn’t bring herself to name became. 

She began to call out to Aziraphale instead - who she _could_ name, and did so wholeheartedly, until it devolved into a repetition of “Selah,” and “please,” and “oh fuck." He, of course, very much enjoyed and revelled in everything that fell from her lips. But he provided no mercy, no matter how many psalms she breathed in rapture.

And then, finally, he moved his hand from her thigh to press two fingers into Crowley. His fingers met no resistance at all, as wet as she was; the hot walls of her flesh pulling him in until he curled his fingers _just so_. Crowley came suddenly with a scream, spasming around Aziraphale’s fingers and arching her back up off the bed as he drank her down. 

Aziraphale pulled his fingers from inside Crowley, slowly and gently, and crawled up onto the bed. He stretched his body over Crowley's like a blanket, offering the comfort and safety of his warmth and weight while her muscles continued to tremble. He smoothed his hand over the planes of her shoulder and arm, gently petting her sensitive skin at the precise speed required to calm the physical corporation she inhabited, until she no longer shivered with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

“Good?” Aziraphale murmured, leaving a trail of affectionate kisses up Crowley’s neck to just behind her ear. She shivered again and hummed in confirmation with her eyes firmly shut. Her lips turned up at the corners in a small, secret smile that made Aziraphale’s heart take flight, knowing he was the only one who ever got to see it. This smile was for him, and him alone, revealed only in the deepest depths of their homes. When there was no one else who might see how soft his demon was in truth, down at the deepest core of herself.

They cuddled together, basking in the warmth and touch of each other atop the plush bedcovers. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a steaming basin of water appeared on the nightstand, along with a soft terry washcloth. Crowley didn’t bother opening her eyes as Aziraphale shifted to sit up and pull her into his lap, pillowing her head on his thighs. She did, however, sigh happily, the edges of her lips pulling up into another of her secret smiles at the warm touch of the cloth, gently removing her makeup from where it had smeared across her face. 

“Love you,” she breathed, her half-asleep words nearly slurring together, with a contented hiss tacked onto the end.

“And I you, my darling.” Aziraphale kissed her forehead and stroked her hair until Crowley drifted to sleep in his lap, perfectly content to miss their reservations. This time, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr here!](https://d20owlbear.tumblr.com/)


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